


The Book

by believeinmycroft



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Abandoned Work - Unfinished and Discontinued, Alternate Universe - College/University, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, M/M, My First Fanfic, My First Work in This Fandom, Sexual Tension, Slash, Slow Build, yeah cliche i know
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-25
Updated: 2014-06-25
Packaged: 2018-02-06 04:00:40
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,569
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1843558
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/believeinmycroft/pseuds/believeinmycroft
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Marco turns the pages feverishly, drinking in the art, the beautiful, frighteningly realistic drawings that seem to leap off the page and into reality. He runs his fingers over the pictures, feeling the soft indents where the pencil has pressed against the paper, tracing the line of the faces and the bodies and the world that this person, whoever they are, has created out of nothing more than a lead pencil and some blank paper.</i>
</p><p>In which Marco discovers a mysterious scrapbook and tries to find the owner.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Book

Marco is … perplexed. In his hands he holds a book, but it doesn’t look like just any book. It has a black, crinkled cover that looks and feels like leather. He lifts it to his nose. Hmm, smells like leather too. He puts it down on the table top, resting it gently and feeling the cover with his thumbs before slowly moving his hands down to rest on the plastic table. He stares at the book, letting out a huff of annoyance through his nose.

If the café weren’t so crowded, he’d be tempted to ask out loud if anyone had lost it, but as luck would have it he’s here on a Saturday afternoon, one of their busiest times. Thankfully, he’s tucked himself away in a corner booth, avoiding the noise of what sounds like fifty billion perky high school and college students. He _had_ been going to try to do schoolwork but then he’d seen a slender black book lying on the seat next to him, almost inviting him to open it. He’d been curious, glanced around and saw no one looking for it, then placed it on the table, where he’d now spent the past five minutes deliberating whether or not he should open it.

The book has no name or title on the front cover. Marco hasn’t opened it yet to see if a name is written inside. For some strange reason he feels as though it would be disrespectful to whoever owned the book, like reading their diary. But then a sudden surge of curiosity overtakes him and he leans forward with one hand outreached, ready to open it, but he stops, his fingers curled into a fist. He sighs, bringing his hand down to tap absentmindedly on the top of the book, chewing his lip. _Maybe I should order a drink to get my mind off it._

He lifts his hand and the waitress comes over after a moment, threading her way through the forest of tables and chairs and teenagers chatting loudly, finally stopping next to his table. He can’t help but notice how cute she is, with brown, chin-length hair and pretty but tired looking eyes. He’s almost tempted to ask for her number but dismisses the thought because, damn it, he’s too damn shy to muster up the courage. A tea towel is thrown haphazardly across one shoulder and her shirt has smudges of cake in odd places.

‘Busy afternoon?’ He says, raising an eyebrow and trying not to blush.

She snorts, but an amused smile graces her lips. ‘You don’t say.’ She flips open a notepad and raises her pen. ‘Now, what can I get you?’

‘Just a cappuccino, thanks. Two sugars.’ He scans her chest for her name badge. ‘Lucy,’ he adds, flashing a wide, lopsided smile that she doesn’t mention, but a small spot of pink colours each of her cheeks.

‘Um, certainly,’ she mumbles shyly, walking away through the crowd.

Marco grins then turns back to the table, spotting the book again, which he glares at.

‘Nope, not going to read it,’ he says, turning away and looking stubbornly at the crowd.

* * *

When Lucy comes back a few minutes later, with a steaming, frothy cappuccino, Marco is nose-deep in the book. She places it down on the table and he lifts his head for a moment, silently nodding thanks before she leaves. He turns back to the book.

It’s even more wonderful than he could have imagined, and although he feels a small twinge of shame over succumbing to his damn curiosity, at the same time he doesn’t regret a single thing. He’d briefly thought about what the book could contain and was prepared for just about anything, whether it was a personal journal, or a planner, or some sort of writing book, but for some weird reason he’d never thought it would contain _art,_ and so much of it too.

The drawings all seem to be different, but they’re all incredible. On one page it’s a rough sketch of what looks like an old couple sitting inside a restaurant, the old man leaning across the table and clasping his wife’s wrinkled hand in his own, his face a myriad of grey lines and a soft smile crinkling the corners of his eyes. One another page it’s a dog with its hackles up, standing outside a window at night in the rain and howling up at the full moon. On yet another it seems to be a drawing of some hideous, humanoid creature, but with no skin, its red, stringy, taut muscles completely visible, and the creature itself towering over a village, holding a much smaller person in its monstrous hand. Marco finds a shiver run down his spine for some unknown reason.

Marco turns the pages feverishly, drinking in the art, the beautiful, frighteningly realistic drawings that seem to leap off the page and into reality. He runs his fingers over the pictures, feeling the soft indents where the pencil has pressed against the paper, tracing the line of the faces and the bodies and the world that this person, whoever they are, has created out of nothing more than a lead pencil and some blank paper.

Marco notices with sadness that he is nearing the end of the book and the pages are beginning to thin. He slows down, savouring each page more and more, because he has a strange feeling in the pit of his stomach, that this moment will become some precious memory in the future, and he wants to make it last as long as he can. Towards the last few pages he notices the drawings becoming gradually darker, more violent, changing from the usual sketches of people and animals into twisted creatures and stormy landscapes. A particularly vicious drawing of a dragon screaming fire at a line of soldiers is followed by several blank pages, and Marco turns them quickly, disappointed. With a sigh he turns to the last page, expecting to see nothing at all, but is rewarded with a sight that turns the tips of his ears bright red and makes him slam the book shut with a loud bang, gathering him a few odd looks from the nearest people.

Marco clears his throat, his cheeks warm, and almost blushes again when he thinks of how ridiculous it is to feel this awkward about just a silly drawing like that … He looks around again, ignoring the glances of several nearby teenagers, but doesn’t find what he’s looking for. He sighs, looking longingly at the book. _He should really just leave it here …_

Against his better judgement, he picks up the book and slides it into his backpack, trying his best to put it in gently amid the multitude of plastic water bottles and random homework papers, but ends up having to cram it in so it’ll actually fit. He swears under his breath, frowning, then looking around before remembering his coffee. He picks up the cup and takes a little sip before almost gagging. It’s almost ice-cold. Obviously he’d been staring at that book for a lot longer than he thought. He glances at his watch and swears when he sees the time, standing up and swinging his backpack onto his shoulder, leaving a few dollar notes on the table.

He almost runs out of the café, ignoring the stares from the customers, opening the door and dashing out onto the footpath, thinking only of when he can get home and look at the-

‘Oof!’ Marco feels the breath rush out of him when someone slams into him on the pavement just outside the entrance. He stumbles back, catching himself against the wall of the café, but the other man isn’t so lucky and falls backwards onto the concrete, groaning.

‘Shit, I-I’m so sorry!’ Marco stammers, stepping forward and reaching out a hand for help.

Two sharp eyes glare up at him from underneath a messy head of hair which fades from brown into a dusky blonde, and he looks to be about Marco’s age. The man stands up, ignoring Marco’s outstretched hand, and it’s only when he stands up completely and starts dusting himself off. The man’s face is so obviously pissed off that it’s almost comical, and Marco accidentally lets out a short bark of laughter before stifling it with a hand.

The man looks up at him and narrows his eyes, and the threat in that piercing, deep grey is enough to make the laughter halt suddenly in Marco’s throat. The man steps forward and Marco can see fury, violent fury in the man’s face, and a shiver of fear runs down Marco’s spine. And then the guy steps closer, so close that Marco can see all the kaleidoscope patterns of his iris and feel his warm breath ghosting over his cheeks.

‘Fuck. Off.’ The man enunciates each word, gritting his teeth and glowering at Marco with all of his might. And then the man pushes Marco aside with one hand and stomps into the café. Marco gapes after him, stunned, lowering his hand. The words feel like they’re ringing in his ears.

‘What a dick,’ he mutters finally, too shocked to do anything but stare at the man’s back through the window as he stalks through the café. And then, remembering, he looks at his watch and curses, walking quickly off down the street.


End file.
